Fire and Ice
by Vertabros
Summary: Jim needed to be seen and Spock needed to find home, it took them spilling each others blood on the ice to find what they were looking for. Hockey!fic STBB!2011 Submission Rated M for Swearing and Violence


We never really know who our heroes are going to be. Someone had once said that to Jim, and he can't help but think of how true that statement is.

His older brother Sam—short for George Samuel Kirk—worshiped their father, the martyr of martyrs and the saver of lives. Jim had wanted to worship him too. He ached to be able to look up to his father with the same fierce admiration Sam did, but to Jim, his father was faceless—just a simple bedtime story his mother told him with tears in her eyes.

How could Jim worship a man who he had never seen, never hugged, never got a chance to love? How could little Jim, so alone in the world, look up to the man who had left him just as he was taking his first screaming breaths?

This was something Sam didn't, or _couldn't_, understand. Sam had years with his father that Jim hadn't. So when Sam enlisted in Starfleet, Jim was furious. His brother, whom Jim had looked up to ever since Sam taught him to tie his shoes, was leaving him to fly off into some black void, never to been seen again.

"You'll die up there—in space," hurled a waif thin, ten year old Jim Kirk from the porch, as he watched his brother stuff his over-sized duffel bag into the back of a hover car.

Sam sighed and turned to look at Jim. Sam walked over to the porch, mounted the steps and swept his little brother into his arms for a tight hug. If he noticed the poignant sniffling and the growing wet spot on his t-shirt, he said nothing about it.

"It's better than dying here in Iowa, Jimmy. Keep your nose clean, kiddo." With one last tousle of Jim's hair, George Samuel Kirk swept off the porch and sped off in the hover car, far away from Iowa and far away from Jim. Jim could only stare after his older brother, eyes burning from dust and tears, wondering why dying alone in space was better than living here on earth.

_/They all leave me/_

Jim had nearly forgotten why he hated space, until his mother had sat him down with tears in her eyes, as she told him that his brother had been killed during an away mission on some far off alien planet.

Suddenly, that dark void that had filled Jim since his brother sped away in that hover car to go explore stranger new worlds, and go where no man had gone before, was filled with the soul-searing rage only grief could create. He felt as if his veins were pumping battery acid, burning through him as it thundered through his small body.

Jim had barely been aware that he was crying, and even more vaguely aware that he was no longer in the house sitting next to his crying mother while all he wanted to do was rip apart the universe. But he had snapped back to reality and he could feel the razor-sharp winds whipping around the windshield of his step father's old Corvette, as he pushed it as fast as the ancient car could go.

_/They all leave me/_

The little voice in his head was getting louder with every tear that fell and every breath that reminded him Sam _wasn't coming back. Sam died in Space. Sam left me, just like Dad left me and just like Mom leaves me all alone. I am alone. No one sees me. I am alone. THEY ALL LEAVE ME_

/They all leave me/

He's sped straight for the quarry, with only the voice the guide him.

_/THEY ALL LEAVE, THEY ALL LEAVE, THEY ALL LEAVE, LEAVE, LEAVE, LEAVE, __**LEAVE**__-/_

Then Jim heard it, clear as day, and clearer than any other voice in his head. It screamed at him with every fiber of his being-

/_**MAKE THEM SEE YOU**_/

So naturally, he did the only thing he could do while hurtling towards a cliff at 70 miles an hour… Jim threw himself out of the car. Hurling himself into the dirt, and clinging to the earth with a desperation Jim hadn't felt since he threw those words at Sam before he went off to die in the black void of space.

As he hefted himself over the precipice, Jim simply relished the feeling of having the earth, solid and unmoving, beneath him. That was until the boot heels of his judiciary tail thudded heavily into the dirt in front of him. For a few moments Jim tried to draw the last bit of certainty and steadfast-ness from the ground beneath him before he stood, facing the imposing Robo-Cop staring blankly at him.

"Citizen, what is your name?"

"My name is James Tiberius Kirk."

_/They all leave me/_

~~

In the months after the Corvette incident, Jim did everything he could to make his mother see him. But no matter what Jim did—whether it be burning down the shed, tipping the neighbor's cow, cutting off little Rachel Cochrane's ponytail in class, or even getting caught with a cigarette behind the gym, Winona Kirk gazed at her son with the same misted-over look of grief she looked at everything with since Sam died.

At the advisement of his teachers, principal and guidance counselor, Jim was put in therapy. With a cynicism that was startling for a boy of twelve, Jim wished he had stayed in the Corvette as it plummeted off the cliff.

The doctor seemed nice enough, but all she ever did was ask Jim, _Why_.

"Why do you act out in school, James?" Why did you drive your step father's Corvette into the quarry, James?"

All day long, with the 'Why' questions and the insistence to call him '_James_'. Jim didn't like being called 'James', and he despised the 'Why' questions.

They always hurt too much to answer.

After what felt like an eternity of running in circles and not getting anywhere, his doctor—Dr. Peterson was her name—wanted to meet with his mother to talk.

After an hour of hearing his doctor re-hash and paraphrase his sessions back to his mother, Dr. Peterson had come to one conclusion. Jim had, along with unresolved grief over his brother's death, attention deficit disorder or A.D.D, as it was often called.

It was obvious. That was why he couldn't concentrate in school. That was why he was acting out, that must be why.

Something deep down squeezed hard around his heart.

This was wrong. He acted out so his mom would see him, not just look at him—not just look past him, seeing all the faces of the Kirk men she had lost. He couldn't concentrate because in the darkness and silence he felt like he didn't exist. Jim couldn't sit still because he just needed someone to see him.

As Dr. Peterson scribbled something down on a PADD, quietly murmuring things to his mom about dosing instructions and possible side effects, Jim simply tuned it out as he looked out the window.

_/Make them see you/_

~~

A few days later, Christopher Pike, an old friend of his dad's, who insisted on being called 'Uncle Chris' showed up at the old Kirk farmhouse to visit. Jim was always a little star struck when it came to Uncle Chris. When he was young, before Sam joined Starfleet, Sam had shown him old holo-vids of their Uncle Chris playing hockey.

Christopher Pike had been one of the best hockey players of the decade. He had led all the NHL teams he had played with to Stanley Cup victories. Thanks to Christopher Pike, the one-hundred year Calgary Flames Stanley Cup drought had ended in a glorious hat-trick that sent the crowds screaming to their feet. Numerous teams from the New Jersey Devils, the New York Rangers and the Toronto Maple Leafs had Christopher to thank for their inspiring wins.

Jim had seen the footage—Pike had been unbeatable. He had been tough as nails, like Bobby Orr, with the scoring averages of Wayne Gretsky and the charm and love from the people that Sydney Crosby had. Jim was mesmerized by the sight of his Uncle whipping up and down the ice, stealing the puck away from an unsuspecting defenseman and, with a deft flick of the wrist, sending the puck flying at its maximum velocity past the goalie, sending the crowd into cheers of triumph or groans of defeat.

Uncle Chris had even represented Earth in the Federation Worlds Tournament of Hockey. Jim had never watched that footage.

In the final game of the tournament, Earth vs Romulus, Nero, Romulus's secret weapon, came up from behind Chris and delivered a powerful body-check, sending Chris crashing to the ice, bringing several Romulan players crashing down with him and on top of him. The force of all that weight on top of him—plus the weakening from years of playing hockey, and the stress from previous injuries—had been too much.

His back had been broken in several places, and his spinal cord irreparably damaged. Christopher hadn't walked, much less played hockey, since that day.

Nero, however, had only suffered minimally—a suspension and a public hearing, but the next year he returned to have is best season yet. Jim thought this was unfair, but Uncle Chris had seemed to make his peace with it.

Even after being confined to a wheelchair, he was still having an illustrious coaching career. Right now he was recruiting young players for the IIHF World Juniors. It was all so exciting and other-worldly to Jim.

If Jim had ever had a hero who he wanted to grow up to be like, it was his Uncle Chris. So when his Uncle wheeled up the porch-ramp, Jim had a million questions for him: Who had he signed? When did the games start? Was he coaching the Canadian Team or the American team this year? Where were they playing? Would Jim be able to see one of the games live?

"Woah, woah, woah, kiddo, slow down. Nothing is set in stone. It is still really early and we haven't recruited anybody yet. As for actually coming to one of the games, that's your mom's call," He said good-naturedly. Jim's face fell a little bit, as he knew his mom would never let him go see a game scheduled outside of Riverside, and the likelihood of a game being in Riverside was close to zero. "Now, where's your mom hiding?"

"She's inside replicating iced-tea, I think."

Uncle Chris and Jim pulled identical faces at the idea of replicating anything. Even in the 23rd Century, technology hadn't caught up enough to make home replicators reliable and able to make anything that tasted remotely normal.

As his Uncle wheeled inside, Jim returned to his ancient comic books and vaguely entertained the idea that his Uncle was secretly the telepathic Leader of a group of mutant superheroes, or possibly worked recon for Batman.

~~

Half way through the newest issue of the Incredible X-Men, Jim heard raised voices. Curious, Jim set down his PADD and pressed his ear to the screen door, trying to catch the snippets of conversation.

"Really Winona? You are going to _drug your son_-" Jim had never heard his Uncle so angry or judgmental, especially not towards Jim's mother.

"I am not _drugging_ him, Christopher!"

The sound of the fridge door being jerked open, thrust shut, and the angry slamming of the well-worn juice jug, punctuated his mother's anger more than the angry hiss of her voice. That juice jug had been his grandmother's and his mother was always careful when handling it, afraid the ancient plastic would crack.

"That is _exactly_ what you're doing."

"Well, I don't _know_ what to do anymore, Chris. He _drove_ Frank's car into the quarry last year – _the quarry!_ He could have _died_ , Chris, and ever since then he's gotten _worse_. Burning down barns – _smoking_. I don't know _what to do_ anymore." He could hear his mother's voice edge just past the point of hysteria, and deep down something inside Jim clenched and he instantly regretted burning down the barn, smoking and driving the corvette into the quarry.

"Dosing him daily to keep him from acting out is not the answer."

Jim was confused—dosing him? What had that doctor told his mother to do about him?

"Then what is, Chris? You seem to know _everything_ about raising my children—tell me, _what_ is the answer?"

Jim could hear the shrillness in his mother's voice taper off as she choked out sobs. With baited breath, Jim eased the screen open and peeked around the corner to get a better look at his mother. Jim watched silently as his mother was bent over, in an awkward position—her shoulders jerking and shuddering as his Uncle Chris hugged her tenderly.  
Bile rose in the back of his throat and Jim looked away, reminded that he couldn't remember what a hug from his mom felt like. He pulled back and quietly shut the screen, trying to furiously blink away the rapidly forming tears.

"Look," Chris said quietly. "Before you start giving Jim the medication, why don't you let me try something?"

His mom sniffled "Something?" A pause. "Like what?"

"Let me coach him." There was something in his voice suggesting that he had mentioned this before.

"Hockey? Chris—" Jim could practically hear his mother rolling her eyes.

"Trust me, Winnie." Jim wrinkled his nose. _No one ever calls Mom, Winnie._ "It will give him something to do besides get into trouble. Plus, he'll socialize. Jim is an isolated boy—he needs interaction, not medication."

There was a pause as his mom drew a shaky breath.

"Okay Chris, we'll try this your way." There was the brief shuffling sounds of another hug before his Uncle spoke again.

"It's the right thing to do, Win. Trust me."

Jim balked at the thought of playing hockey. Hours upon hours on the ice—learning to balance on tiny skates, as he attempted to move about with some measure of grace, without falling on his face. Nothing about long, painful workouts, and tedious conditioning appealed to him.

_/Make them see you/_

Then it flooded Jim as if someone had destroyed the Hoover Dam. The opportunity of being taught by one of the best coaches in Hockey history, being groomed to one day stand on the ice, accepting a gold medal or the Stanley Cup with thousands of fans cheering.

_/Make them see you/_

As Jim stood there, his pulse racing with his blood rushing to his ears and thundering through his veins, he felt much like the day he raced the Corvette into the quarry. The exhilaration of unhindered adrenalin coursing through him and the small twinge of fear in his gut as he hurtled toward something he could never go back from. Jim knew that this was no longer a childhood dream fueled by the need to be seen – this was the path on which he was supposed to be.

_/Make them see you!/_

~~

After his Uncle returned from Canada with a rare loss under his belt, Jim's frustrations began to mount in the first early months of training. When Jim laced up his skates and etched the first skate lines into the ice, his Uncle ceased being good ol' Uncle Chris, and started being Coach Pike . Soon Jim hated 'Coach Pike' with a passion, Pike demanded more from Jim, more than Jim thought he could give. Normally, when Jim was obstinate and dug in his heels, the receiving party usually gave in but not Pike. Pike just kept pushing and pushing Jim. Making him skate faster, put more force in his slap shots, and use more power in his forearms. Flick his wrists this way and not that way, better accuracy, more force, more speed. This equally frustrated and exhilarated him. Jim was so used to being ignored, pacified and brushed off as nothing more than a troublemaker that he had forgotten what it felt like to have his limits tested, and to learn more than how to cause the most collateral damage. So with the added pressure and the constant push of his Coach's guidance started to carve and mold Jim into a strong, young hockey player, like the river that carved the Grand Canyon.

Jim was quickly finding his stride—a steadfast determination sparking somewhere dark inside of him; somewhere deeper and more powerful than the voices. Soon the weight of Coach Pike's expectations no longer grated against him igniting the urge to dig in his heels and resist; but it was like a rock striking flint, lighting a wildfire in Jim that he'd never felt before.

~~

Jim excelled rapidly, surpassing the other kids his age and systematically skating circles around his teammates until he had developed his skills enough to leave the minor leagues and try out for his first WHL team. The coaches and trainers were just as taken with Jim's big scoring averages and even bigger attitude, as were the fans—and soon they signed Jim to his first contract.

His Uncle Chris who, upon Jim's contract signing, had reverted from Coach Pike back to good ol' Uncle Chris, watched on proudly as Jim packed his bags for Boston and his first WHL game. Jim stood awkwardly by the hover-cab, looking up at the porch where his mom stood. He remembered the day, so long ago, when he stood on that same porch trying to convince Sam to stay in Iowa. He stared at his mom, neither of them knowing the right words to say in these moments, and he simply smiled.

"Bye Mom."

Winona looked down at her only son,

"Bye, Jimmy. I love you, be safe."

Jim nodded curtly to his Uncle and waved awkwardly to his mom. He stuffed himself into the backseat, alongside his duffel bag. As he watched Iowa roll past his window, Jim tried his best to will the lump in his throat away as he thought of his father, his brother and his mother.

_/Make them see you/_

~~

Boston was unlike anything Jim had experienced. (Jim felt this was clichéd, but he was never a man of words so he had no way to adequately describe it).

The players were so unlike those in Iowa. Every guy longed for a spot on the Bruin's bench and played like they could achieve it. Everyone trained until there was no ice bath cold enough to ease their muscles. They were Clydesdales on ice—stubborn workhorses hell-bent on proving themselves as true athletes worthy of an NHL jersey.

But even on a team with such impressive young talent, Jim was without a doubt the best player on his team. By the middle of the season, scouts from the World Juniors were showing up at his games. All eyes were on Jim as he slid deftly up and down the ice, hammering away at the offensive line, streaking past the idle defensemen, slamming a forward into the boards with a mighty clap of thunder from the shuddering glass, and weaving and following the puck until he possessed it.

His legs burned with exertion, his lungs shuddered against his ribs and his blood surged through his veins and he never felt so alive. Jim broke past the crop of offense trying valiantly to deny him the puck, and as he raced across the blue-line, he was once again reminded of the old Corvette and that day at the quarry.

_/The wind whipping harshly about his face/_

The defensive line struggling to catch him—

_/The voice screaming inside of him/_

The roar of the crowd at its feet—

_/"Citizen, what is your name?"/_

"And Kirk gets the breakaway! Kirk _shoots_—!"

_/MAKE THEM SEE YOU/_

"HE SCORES!"

The crowd erupts again, and his teammates skate over to him. They all but hoist him onto their shoulders, reveling in their collective victory, but Kirk feels none of it. He's looking up at the stands, along with the IIHF World Juniors scout and GM, his Uncle Chris is seated, cheering and shaking the hands of his colleagues. But more important than that, his mom is at her feet, smiling and cheering for him.

Something is shaking inside of Jim and he lets loose a smile, feeling happier than he had since before he was standing on his porch telling Sam he'd die in space. Even with his mom smiling at him, the chance to represent his country on the world stage practically cemented, the voice still hummed in the back of his mind.

_/Make them all see you/ _

~~

Training camp was different than what Jim had expected. His ego had led him to believe that he had been on the team the second the Juniors Head Coach, a harsh woman who everyone simply acknowledged as 'Number One', had said 'training camp'. However, this camp was merely a preliminary measure, to weed out the weak links. Jim was standing next to some of the best hockey players under twenty, all vying for a limited spot on a team that could springboard them into a fruitful NHL career.

Needless to say, that summer while other kids his age were swimming, lounging on the beach and having their first taste of both alcohol and love, Kirk was sweating for entirely different reasons. He spent all of June and July preparing for the three-day camp that determined whether or not he would be admitted to the American Junior team.

Everyday, Jim rose at an ungodly hour, ingested questionably green and fresh-looking food to keep up with his calorie demand, pushing himself to his limits at the gym and spent hour after hour on the ice, practicing his stick handling, whipping about the ice and generally doing everything in his power to gain the upper hand.

When August rolled around, Jim was pretty secure in his abilities. However, his confidence waned when he looked down at the ice and saw the sheer number of young talent all attempting to secure a spot on one of the best teams in the world. There must have been more than forty guys, standing nervously on the ice waiting for the practice to start.

Down the line, towering above the others, standing perfectly still and looking intensely calm amongst the nervous shifting of his competition, stood the tallest drink of water Jim had ever laid eyes on. He must have been 6'4'' at least, without skates, long, thick legs and broad shoulders that spoke of a man, not a boy.

Jim's muscles itched to slide along the ice and plow into him at full speed to see what it would take to knock this man, who looked more suited to the football field than the ice, off his feet. As Jim's eyes left Mr. Colossus, he was struck with an odd thought; the dark eyebrows, peeking just below the visor of the tallest player on the ice, slanted upward, not unlike the brows of Vulcan's. He discarded the thought instantly and laughed to himself, _'Vulcan's don't play hockey. It's much too barbaric for such a logical race.' _

Suddenly, the woman Jim recognized as Number One slid onto the ice with the two associate coaches and began the practice. They were split into two teams and summarily put through their paces. Jim came to two simultaneous conclusions: One, this was not going to be as easy as he'd thought. Two, he hated playing against Mr. Colossus. Every time he made a move with the puck, Colossus was there, covering him, dogging him up and down the ice, stealing the puck out from under him.

Jim gritted his teeth and pushed back, hard. He became the unstoppable shadow, battering him waiting for an opening and taking advantage of it, trying to use his smaller stature to evade the towering giant in his quest to the net. Point for point, Jim and 'Colossus' were matching each other.

Every face-off was a battle for the puck—it was as if no one else there was a threat to either of them. They had set their sights on each other ever since Jim flashed his trademark cocky smirk and was met with the twitch of a dark, Vulcan-like brow as they slid into place for the start of the game.

By the end of the training weekend, Jim hurt in places he hadn't previously discovered. As Jim returned to Boston with more bruises than ever, the familiar ache brought him back to the day at the quarry. But this exhilaration was greater than before. At age ten when Jim had hauled himself up from the dirt, he had come up with a lust for rebellion and a greed for freedom. Now, at sixteen, Jim walked away with something finite – something that quelled the obsession to prove himself.

This time Jim walked away with a Team USA jersey fisted tightly in his hands, and the knowledge that someone saw him for just what he was.

However, Jim's ego was slightly damaged; always being told he was one of the best had convinced Jim he was the best and as such, he would be the best team Captain. But the role of Captain was filled by Colossus, whose name was Spock and was, puzzlingly, half-Vulcan.

The knowledge that Colossus or, T'schn T'gai Spock as he was _formally_ known, was startling and admittedly _baffling_ to Jim. It was universally understood that Vulcans were  
a race whose dedication to logic and order superseded all other desires yet, Spock had glided along the ice like he had owned it.

Jim had known that something was unusual about the hulking player but he had suspected steroids, not Vulcan genealogy, had something to do with the near unnatural strength and speed Spock exhibited on the ice. So after the last day of the training camp Jim had asked around the locker room to see if anyone knew anything about the mysterious player.

"All I know about the guy is that he's played for the Team for the last couple of years or so." Gary Mitchell, an arrogant hot-shot goalie coming fresh off a championship win in Atlanta, supplied uselessly.

Everyone else that Jim interrogated seemed to know as little about Spock as he did so, when Jim finally returned to the small hotel, he vowed to find out everything about the stoic player.

When Jim had finally found his PADD and began to scrounge around the Nets for information, he nearly spat out his Gatorade. Spock was Vulcan. Or, more accurately, _half_ Vulcan. Jim was a little dumbstruck, Vulcans were seen as the elitists of the Federation and, as far as anyone knew, were hesitant about sharing their culture with any race, let alone _Humans_.

_'Apparently they aren't as tight-lipped as they have led us to believe.'_ Jim thought as he scoured another article about Spock, who was proving to be exceedingly interesting.

The son of the Vulcan Ambassador and some big-wig politician, it was clear the from the start, Spock had been groomed to follow in his parent's footsteps but, here he was playing junior hockey with a bunch of blue collar trouble-makers. _Huh._

_'A riddle, wrapped in and enigma.'_

Normally, Vulcans, as a race, prided themselves on logic and reason—they did not participate in full contact sports like hockey. Part of it had to do with the fact that Vulcans were three times stronger than Humans were, and stronger than most races in the Federation Worlds Tournament of Hockey. But the bigger part was that the purpose of sports was sheer entertainment. Vulcans, as an emotionally repressed species, did not see the value or need for things like television or sports once childhood had passed. Therefore, Jim was puzzled as to why Spock would be actively pursuing a career in professional hockey.

However, none of that mattered to Jim, not the white collar and certainly not the Vulcan heritage. All that really mattered was that Spock was Captain and Jim wasn't. That bugged the hell out of Jim. But at this point, Jim couldn't do much more than rejoice in the fact that he made the team.

This brought him back to Iowa, sitting in his mother's kitchen, sipping the most horrible tasting booze you could imagine with his Mother and his Uncle, celebrating his accomplishment. Jim coughed hoarsely in retaliation to the burn of whiskey down his throat. Uncle Chris clapped him on the back and laughed.

"I can't believe I'm letting my sixteen year-old delinquent son drink," Winona said with a sigh as she grimaced at the taste of the regrettable alcohol. "And drink such terrible whiskey, at that. Chris, where the hell did you get this?"

Uncle Chris laughed. "It's from McCoy—he's trying his hand at moonshine. It's better than the first batch."

"I find it hard to believe that this is better than anything. How's Len doing, anyway?"

"He's doing okay; the wife's taking everything from him. I wouldn't be surprised if he's drinking the damn stuff as fast as he's making it." Uncle Chris shook his head, finished the dregs of his drink and filled the empty glasses around the table.

"Who's Len McCoy?" Jim piped in, trying to ignore the terrible taste of the substandard whiskey sloshing around his mouth.

"Leonard McCoy is an old friend of your Mom and me. I'm surprised you don't recognize the name, Jim. He's the USA Team Doctor."

"Oh, you mean the crotchety old guy who gave me the physical? I just call him Bones."

This got a giggle out of his mother, and Jim couldn't help but grin in return.

"Bones. That's a good one, Jimmy." His Mom paused, and ran her fingers through his hair, her eyes going a little watery. "I'm proud of you, honey. I know that I have not always said it, but I'm so proud of you." She exhaled shakily and looked down, seemingly trying to gather the pieces of herself together. "And I know that your father would be too."

Jim looked at his mom for a moment, before surging across the table and hugging her; holding her more tightly than he had clutched at the ledge of the quarry. He did his best to try to convince himself that the tears were an unfortunate side effect of the acrid aftertaste of the bad whiskey. "Thanks Mom."

He could feel his mother's shoulders shaking slightly as he hugged her over the table. "I love you, Jimmy."

"Love you, Mom."

Maybe it was the booze, or maybe it was the re-connection with his mother, but Jim suddenly felt more intensely excited about playing hockey than he ever had. For the first time in a long time, there was no voice inside of him tugging at his heart—there was only excitement and anticipation for the events to come.

~~

Before the playoff rounds started, Jim killed himself training. He knew that being one of the youngest players on the team gave him something to prove; not only to himself and the team, but also to Spock. During the three-day training camp, a rivalry had sparked deep in Jim's gut. Maybe it was Spock's demeanor—the way he looked down on Jim, both literally and figuratively—that made Jim's jaw clench and stature turn defiant. Jim hated being brushed off, so the flippant way Spock disregarded him instantly made Jim want to force Spock to realize his potential. All of this cultivated Jim's ferocious attitude toward his training.

The first tier of his regimen involved building muscle mass. Jokingly, Jim had asked his Uncle Chris if he had an extra wheelchair hanging around in case he pushed himself too hard and couldn't walk afterwards. Unfortunately, Chris did not have an extra for him to borrow because Jim really could have used it. Despite being unable to provide an aid for his weary muscles, his Uncle helped coach him with his training as well as spotting him while Jim weight trained.

Slowly, despite the protest of his muscles, Jim inched up his weight load, until he was benching and squatting nearly three-hundred pounds. But his Uncle reminded him that training wasn't all about muscle-strength, but flexibility—so, begrudgingly, Jim started to practice yoga.

Sure, the idea of yoga had often seemed appealing—especially when Jim strolled by store windows, peering inside to see an attractive blond bending and flexing in more obscene ways than Jim could ever imagine, but yoga lost it's luster when Jim was being poked, prodded and flexed by a crotchety old sports physician. His Uncle had used his connections and friendship to convince Leonard McCoy to also help Jim with his training. In theory, this was a good idea; a trained sports physician helping Jim realize his body's full potential without risk of injury. In practice, it was a very bad idea.

"Bones, I swear to god this is completely undignified and downright just, wrong-" Jim whined as the cranky medic tried to aid Jim in stretching thoroughly.

"Since when have you had dignity? Now shut up and stretch. If you don't adequately stretch your groin, you'll pull a muscle and you won't be able to walk properly let alone play. So _stretch_."

"I don't see why I have to do this, my groin got a good stretch last night-"

"Good God, man!" Leonard sputtered and pulled a little tighter on Jim's leg, causing Jim's laughter to cut off with a slight grunt of discomfort.

After another two hours of intense yoga Jim's hunger made itself known, his stomach growling loudly over the drone of McCoy's lecture. As Jim stood and left the gym, he did his best to ignore the awkward pulling of his recently-stretched muscles.

Despite Jim's hunger, when the suspiciously green looking plate of food was set down in front of him, he attempted to snub his nose at it. The attempt was promptly foiled by another long-winded nutrition speech from McCoy.

"—and you will never make the gains you need if you don't eat right. All that muscles mass you've spent your youth obtaining? It'll be gone faster than you can say 'gravy'. So eat your damn vegetables."

Jim rolled his eyes and groaned as he begrudgingly ate the leafy green-ness, trying to build up the courage to eat the small square of tofu sitting ominously in the center. Soy, yuck.

With his muscles stretched and stomach quieted, Jim prepared for his interval running. With music thundering through the gym, Jim started his low impact warm up with a slow jog; gradually increasing his speed and stride length. When Jim fell into step with lunges, he was suddenly ever glad for Leonard helping him stretch his groin.

Finally, Jim was able to do what he liked best: run. His interval runs began at 600 meters, then 800 meters, then dropped off into shorter sprints and sled pulls. Jim liked the 600 and 800 meter runs the best—he was able to pop the clutch and just run at top speed, burning off all his frustrations and excess energy. With the heavy bass vibrating beneath his feet and guitar riffs squealing in his ears, Jim could just imagine he was on the ice, fierce and unstoppable, as brash and powerful as a thundering drum solo. Every day Chris and Leonard cautioned him:

"Watch your speed Jim, don't top out so quickly."

"Careful or you'll blow a damn knee! Your body can't keep up with the power you're putting behind it; it's a horrible injury waiting to happen!"

But Jim pressed on, pushing his body to its limits.

By the end of the most intense training, Jim was a completely different player. His body had lost all of its adolescence, and Jim grinned at the slab of manhood he now represented.

Jim had lost fifteen pounds in the first five weeks. Two months before the tournament, at the team training camp in Colorado, he did his fitness testing. His body fat had dropped six percent, and he had added three pounds of muscle mass. He was, literally, a new man.

As he left the medical exam room, Jim caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of a towering figure that Jim could only assume was Spock. He snapped his head to the side, hoping to get a better look at Colossus himself. If Jim had been in awe of Spock before, he was completely dumbstruck now.

Training had obviously been as good to Spock as it had been to Jim. Jim was willing to bet that underneath Spock's plain white t-shirt lay tight, defined shoulder muscles that paved the way for the defined, somewhat muscular arms covered in coarse, dark hair. He gawked a little bit at Spock's broadened chest, which tugged slightly at the snug t-shirt, and then tapered to a slightly narrowed waist.

The hormones wreaking havoc in Jim easily supplied him with the picture of Spock doing push-ups, shoulders tensing, pectorals straining with effort—and Jim had to forcibly drag his gaze away from Spock's chest. While Spock's torso was impressive, it was the legs, clad in black yoga pants, that Jim was having a hard time grasping. They seemed to go on forever, and unlike Jim, Spock had gained very little bulk in his thighs. Everything about Spock just seemed leaner, more svelte. Spock was built for speed and Jim was built for power.

_Oh god, mental image._

Seeing Spock again made Jim forget why he disliked him in the first place, so he did his best to shove away the uncomfortable homo-erotic thoughts and go over to say a quick hello to his teammate. As Jim closed in on his target, the Kirk charm turned up to eleven and he let a smile slip across his face as he waved towards Spock.

"Hey Spock, how's it—" Jim was cut off as Spock, in all his Amazonian glory—_Amazonian glory? What is he Wonder Woman now? Get a grip Jim!_—simply brushed past him, ignoring the outstretched hand and friendly greeting. Jim instantly remembered why he disliked Spock. The inadequate feeling Jim got from being snubbed made his face heat and his jaw clench. He threw a glare over his shoulder at Spock's form, now retreating into the exam room and the voice that had quieted, roared to life with a viciousness that nearly took Jim aback.

_/Make him see you!/_

~~

The first couple of weeks, practicing with the new team was chaos. After months and months of mostly solitary training, gathering the young, egotistical talent together and getting them to work cohesively as a team was a challenge—made all the more difficult by Spock's cold demeanor and Jim's frequent outbursts. Jim had made fast friends with one of the team's defensemen Hikaru Sulu, but Spock's constant criticism and holier-than-thou attitude constantly grated on Jim.

The frequent bickering between Jim and the Team's Captain was rapidly causing the tension to mount until one day, during a shirts vs skins practice game, Jim lost it.

"What the hell was that? Why was that not called?" Jim shouted angrily as he hefted himself up of the ice. From the bench, Number One blew her whistle sharply.

"What the hell now, Kirk?" She asked sharply.

"That asshole—" Jim spat, pointing directly at Spock, who was now leisurely skating back to center ice "—tripped me. It was _so_ clearly a penalty."

Number One sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose harshly. "Goddamnit, Kirk—"

"I did not trip you," Spock said harshly, looking down upon Jim, annoyance slipping through his normally blank façade.

"Yeah, so that was why your stick found itself between my skates, effectively _tripping_ me—"

"Perhaps if you spent more time practicing your skating technique and less time instigating pointless arguments—"

"I need to _practice_ more? Do you know how many fucking hours I _spend_ practicing?"

"Apparently, not enough," Spock said sharply.

Jim's blood began to boil and he could hear Number One shouting across the ice, but Jim didn't pay her any heed. He was intent on wiping the smug look from Spock's too-pretty face. So he wound up and swung his fist as hard as he could at the side of Spock's helmet. The helmet made a loud clatter as it hit the ice, and Spock had the decency to look surprised right before Jim dropped his gloves and swung again. This time Spock was able to deflect his blow and returned with one of his own.

As soon as Spock's fist made the connection with Jim's face, he saw stars. As Jim tried to blink away the white spots, he threw punch after punch, some connecting, some blocked and for every punch Jim landed, two more landed on him.

It was chaos; Number One flew across the ice as other members of the team struggled to separate the two feuding players, her voice going hoarse from shouting. When the team had finally separated them, Jim and Spock were heaving and covered in each other's blood, their jerseys streaked brilliant red and dark green.

Jim felt his nose throb harshly and knew it was broken, as he felt blood drip across his lips, down his chin and onto the mural of brutality on his jersey. Spock had fared no better, as Jim furiously blinked through the tears—which were purely reflexive, really—he saw Spock gently prod his cheekbone and wince. Jim couldn't help but feel the slightest bit smug with his handiwork. Both licked at their swollen, split and bleeding lips as they tried to regain their breath.

By the time Number One had reached them, she looked positively livid.

"I want both of you off the ice _now!_" She barked. "Go to the medic, then pack up your shit and go home. I'll see you both in my office bright and early to discuss what disciplinary action will be taken."

Jim opened his mouth to protest but Number One beat him to it.

"Not another fucking word, Kirk. Get off my ice."

Jim disentangled himself from his teammates, picked up his discarded equipment and left the ice, ignoring Spock's stony presence just behind him. After the quick pit stop in the dressing room to shed his soiled jersey and gear, Jim booked it out of the building. He quickly punched in a call to McCoy, stating he needed medical assistance and a ride back to the hotel the team was being put up at during their stay in Colorado.

"Dammit Jim, I'm, a doctor not a chauffeur." This was the Bones equivalent of 'I'll do it, but I reserve the right to lecture you the entire drive.'

While Jim waited, he tried to breathe deeply and ignore the throbbing mass of pain that was his face. As Jim practiced the breathing exercises he had learned in yoga, Jim felt the air next to him get heavier and he cracked an eye open, instantly wishing he hadn't.

There was Spock—small butterfly enclosures keeping his split lip and split knuckles closed, left eye bruised as hell—standing next to him clearly waiting for a ride as well. Jim tried to grit his teeth, but his damaged nose screamed in protest, so he did he best to simply pretend Spock wasn't there—which was hard because Spock started talking.

"Your broken nose requires medical attention," Spock said evenly.

"No shit," Jim replied bitterly.

"Yet you do not seek out the medic." Jim could practically hear Spock roll his eyes.

Jim huffed. "I'm waiting for my physical therapist. He happens to have an M.D, he doesn't trust the nurses here not to disfigure me."

"Illogical, as all the medical staff here are registered nurses—"

"Gee, look at that, my ride's here—hate to cut this lovely chat short but I have bones that need to be reset," Jim said, the acidity in his voice rising when he turned back to Spock and saw the briefest flash of smugness in his eyes. For a second Jim contemplated throwing his duffel bag down and punching the self-satisfaction out of Spock's eyes again, but Bones began to lay on the horn, so Jim turned his back on Spock and got into the car.

"Good God, man! What happened to your face?" Bones hands flew off the wheel and to Jim's face.

"Fucking _ow_!" Jim winced and flinched away from Bones. Bones retracted his hands and stared at Jim harshly. "What? I got into a fight, is all. It happens all the time."

"Not usually with your own teammates! Jesus Jim, is there a person in this world you haven't pissed off?" McCoy turned back to the steering wheel and stomped on the gas, pulling out of the parking lot.

Jim sighed angrily, "Can you just drop it please? Are you going to be able to fix my nose or not?"

"Of course I can fix your nose, I _am_ a doctor. But what am I going to tell your moth—"

"Nothing—do not tell my mother about this!" Jim said frantically, rummaging through the glove compartment and swiping the small package of tissues. He winced again as he wadded small pieces and shoved them up his nose to stop the bleeding. "I mean it Bones—I am invoking Doctor patient confidentiality."

McCoy grumbled to himself and turned into the hotel parking lot.

"You're damn lucky I brought my big kit."

Jim grinned. "Somehow, I don't think luck had anything to do with it."

"Actually, you're right. I knew someone would wise-up and beat your smart-ass face in." Bones locked his hybrid and motioned for Kirk. "C'mon kid, let's get that nose fixed."

~~

_Crunch._

"FUCKING JESUS," Jim bellowed, pitch high from the pain.

"I warned you it would hurt. Maybe this will be a lesson to you not to pick fights with Vulcan hockey players bigger than you."

"I didn't pick a fight with him—he started it!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep your mouth shut for a minute so I can close your split lip." Bones carefully pinched the split skin together and applied the butterfly enclosures. "There, your face is all patched up. Lemme see your hands." Jim obediently presented his hands to McCoy for repair. Carefully the Doctor swabbed antiseptic over the cuts and abrasions. "So what's the deal, why'd you tangle with a six foot five Vulcan giant?"

"He's only six foot four, and I told you, he started it." Jim felt an odd tugging where the butterfly held his lip closed. "He just…gets under my skin, that's all."

"Helluvah reason to punch someone. Use your words, Jimmy boy." McCoy said jokingly as he wrapped Jim's hands in bandages.

"Easier said than done, when arguing with a Vulcan," Jim muttered under his breath.

McCoy laughed slightly as he finished the wrap up job on Jim's hands. "Okay Jim, I think you're done. Just don't go getting into any more fights with people bigger than you."

"Thanks, Bones."

"I'll be by in a couple'a days to make sure everything's healed alright. Bye, Jim." McCoy ruffled Jim's hair affectionately as he left—which he knew Jim hated.

Jim sighed and swallowed two aspirin, willing the throbbing in his nose to dissipate so he could fall asleep. As Jim lay on the bed trying to fall asleep, he was greeted with fleeting images of his fight with Spock; the fire in his eyes when he had laid the punch to Jim's nose, the green blood rolling over his lips after Jim had split it open. And for a minute, right before he drifted off to sleep, Jim couldn't help but think how much he like seeing that fire in his eyes.

~~

The next morning was hell. Jim's head swam and throbbed as the alarm on his chronometer buzzed harshly on his end table. He slammed his hand down on the bedside table and groped for the beeping device. When he finally shut off the alarm and sat up, his vision swam, so Jim pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. The sharp stab of pain reminded Jim that broken noses don't heal overnight.

As he waited for the pain to subside, Jim went through his yoga breathing exercises, and when all that was left was a dull throb, he stood and rushed to get dressed. He grabbed his duffel bag, after nearly tripping over it, and rushed out of the hotel room. He held his hand up to block the harsh glare of the sun and bounded down the stairs towards his crappy car.

He had carpooled with Sulu the day before—Jim was so, all about saving the planet. Not.—which was why Jim had called Bones the day before, and why Jim's baby was still parked in the lot. Even though it was a piece of shit, it was still Jim's first hover car, so he felt a strong sentimental attachment to it.

He shoved his duffel bag into the back, got in the car and rolled the engine over. He smiled broadly, as the engine started and the quiet rumble was quickly drowned out by the thunder of Jim's music. Despite knowing that he was about to face the firing squad when he got to the rink, Jim couldn't help but smile a little. With the haze wearing off and the throbbing rapidly dissipating, Jim couldn't wait for another day of Hockey, even if Number One shit down his throat and Spock wanted to re-break his nose.

~~

The second he opened the door to Number One's office, that warm fuzzy feeling disappeared instantly. Spock was sitting ramrod straight in one of the chairs across from her desk. Jim swallowed as Number One shot him a glare and a sharp order to "Sit.". Jim dropped his bag and sat down next to Spock.

"So, we are going to talk about the consequences of yesterday. Unsportsmanlike conduct is not permitted—"

Jim laughed harshly. "Oh, give me a break. Fights break out all the time—this is _hockey_ for godsakes!"

"Jim, shut it. Unsportsmanlike conduct against players on other teams is tolerated, but unsportsmanlike conduct against your own teammate; your _Team Captain_ no less, is insubordination and is grounds for removal from the team."

Jim flew up from the chair, nearly upending it. "What? This is bogus—I wasn't the only one throwing punches—"

"Sit down right now Jim, I swear to god, or I will have you thrown out!" Number One yelled at Jim. Number One rarely raised her voice like that, so Jim sat down, shocked. "Now," She said, voice going calmer, more even. "I am aware that while you instigated the fight, you were not the only one involved." She looked poignantly at Spock, whose eyebrow tipped up slightly . "And under normal circumstances, I would not hesitate to have you both removed—not only from the Team, but from the League as well. However, seeing as the tournament starts in a few weeks and you two are without a doubt the most infuriatingly talented young players I have encountered, it is not logical or beneficial to the Team, the League or either of you to remove you. So, both of you are hereby suspended from practice for the next three days. I really did expect more from both of you. Another act of violence or insubordinate behavior towards each other and I will remove you, regardless of how talented you are. Now get out of my office and think about how your bad behavior would reflect on your careers and every facet of the Hockey Leagues you represent."

Jim and Spock nodded in tandem, both avoiding looking at one another as they gathered their things and left Number One's office, like scolded schoolboys. Jim gritted his teeth and he strolled back to his car. As he passed through the hallways he could hear his teammates hollering and carrying on in the dressing rooms, and Jim longed to be with them.

What was he going to do for three days in a strange town with all his friends practicing and getting ready for the tournament? As Jim shoved his duffel bag in his car, he caught a glimpse of Spock in his window's reflection. He threw a glance over his shoulder and saw Spock just standing at the curb, gear bag at his feet, looking like a lost puppy. Jim grit his teeth, _'Don't do it Jim, you'll end up punching him again',_ he thought.

But the conscience that Jim had developed for little lost puppies kicked in, and he turned to face Spock.

"Spock, do you need a ride somewhere?"

Even from across the parking lot, Jim could see Spock's eyebrows shoot skyward.

"I do not require a ride. A taxi-cab should be here momentarily," Spock said evenly.

Jim sifted his weight awkwardly.

"Look, I have nothing better to do right now anyway. Let me give you a ride. I promise I won't even punch you." Jim put his hands up to show he was not a threat.

"I have no fear of physical retaliation."

Jim rolled his eyes.

"Spock, c'mon, get in the car. I'm trying to call a truce, here." Jim and Spock looked at each other for a long moment before Spock picked up his bag and walked stiffly towards the car. "Good. You can stick your bag in the back seat beside mine."

Spock nodded and rounded the other side of the car. Jim started the hover car and immediately turned his music down to a low level. Jim stifled a laugh as Spock tried to fold himself into the front seat.

"There's a little lever on the side, pull it up and the seat should slide back."

Spock nodded stiffly and pushed the seat back as far as it would go. It was still a tight fit, but it was marginally more comfortable for Spock.

"So, where to, Spock?" Jim asked, pulling out of the parking lot.

"Just the hotel, thank you," Spock replied tightly.

"Alright."

As Jim drove, he lightly hummed along to the music playing softly in his car as a distraction to the awkwardness of the situation. If anyone had told him that the day after Jim had punched Spock square in that pretty face, he would offer him a ride out of charity and would be quietly sitting with him in the car as he drove, he would have pissed himself laughing. Jim resisted the urge to shake his head at the weirdness of the situation. After several, long minutes of silence between the pair, they arrived at the hotel.

"Well, here we are." Jim said anxiously, attempting to break the silence. Spock merely looked blandly at him. Jim's grin faltered as he exited the car. It returned, however, as Spock struggled to climb out of the car, and Jim was instantly reminded of clowns piling in and out of tiny clown cars. Jim hauled his bag out of his back seat and turned to Spock. "See ya around, Spock." Jim nodded and started off towards his room after he locked his car doors.

"Jim," Spock said suddenly. Jim stopped, turned around and was slightly puzzled at the look on Spock's face. "I appreciate your gesture of kindness, and I regret my actions yesterday. You are a talented player with very proficient skills in skating."

Jim grinned and walked back towards Spock. "Thanks Spock. I'm sorry for, ya know, punching you in the face and all. Truce?" Jim stuck out his hand for a friendly handshake. He was confused when Spock's cheeks flushed deep green.

"Jim, while the touching of hands in your culture is a friendly gesture, in my culture it is much more…intimate." Spock said tightly, trying to avoid Jim's gaze.

"Oh, oh! Shit sorry, my bad." Jim retracted his hand awkwardly.

"But I am amicable to a truce, despite your many infuriating qualities."

Jim's eyebrow twitched slightly. This truce was going to be harder than he thought. "Good. I will see you in a couple days, Spock."

"Goodbye, Jim." Spock nodded and headed in the opposite direction towards his hotel room, on the other end of the complex.

Jim sighed. Three days was a long time to sit around watching porn. He was going to need to find some way to occupy himself.

~~

Jim had quickly gotten bored of porn, and so, he moved onto the next best thing. He opened his suitcase, pulled out his grandfather's old reading glasses, several antique copies of Stephen King's greatest novels, and sat down to read.

Eight hours and two and a half books down, the door swung open and an exhausted looking Sulu strolled through the door, dropping his bag on the floor and flopping down on the bed. Jim looked over the top of his book,

"Tough practice?"

Sulu moaned and rolled over.

"Yes. God that woman was evil. I mean, you and Spock were the ones brawling on the ice and we were the ones who got punished. It's so not fair. If I could move I would be really tempted to beat you right now."

"Sorry, but Spock already beat you to it, dude." Jim chuckled as he flipped the page.

"Yeah, he really messed your face up."

"Hey, I got him pretty good too. He ain't so pretty anymore," Jim replied indignantly.

Sulu laughed heartily, then winced and placed a hand to his aching abdomen.

"_Oooh_, Jim thinks Spock is pretty." Sulu teased, making kissy faces at Jim, who responded in turn, by whipping a pillow at his friend.

"Shut up. Now sit up and prepare to get your ass handed to you at Halo for Xbox 360 Classic." Jim pulled off his glasses and shoved his dog-eared book in the top drawer of his bedside table.

"Ugh. If I didn't have to defend my manhood, making any physical movements would be out of the question." Sulu hefted himself up, grunting in discomfort.

"Stop being a baby, practice isn't that hard," Jim replied, turning on the near-ancient gaming console Sulu had toted from home.

"Yeah well, not all of us spent the entire summer training and doing yoga seven days a week."

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up and prepare to feel my wrath!"

~~

While Jim and Sulu took turns trash talking and beating each other into the ground, Spock was sitting in his room, the lights dimmed, meditating on the anomaly that was James T. Kirk.

Spock had never met anyone as maddening as James. James, who insisted that Spock call him 'Jim'—who was loud, brash, and tactless. Who never had a strategy, but somehow managed to become one of the best Hockey players under eighteen. Jim, who assaulted him, was not worth his time, and yet still demanded Spock's utmost attention—even when he was nowhere near Spock.

Spock had spent hours meditating over it, but he was just as ignorant as to why Jim's presence lingered and Spock felt some part of him, unreachable through his meditations, become undeniably dedicated to figuring out just why Jim Kirk was. It was like an insatiable itch Spock needed to scratch—an unwanted curiosity he needed to satisfy, even if meant sporting another cracked orbital bone, courtesy of the most infuriating man on the ice. Spock sighed, a human gesture he desperately tried to smother, as this was a distraction he did not need, but he could not deny himself.

Oh, how he had tried. His mother had always attested to Spock's infallible curiosity and nurtured it, while his father frowned upon it. His mother encouraged the 'why' questions while his father insisted life was not about why, but 'how'. To his father, 'why' represented the Human's psychological need for the justification of desire, which was incongruent with the teachings of Surak and thus, un-Vulcan. So, as Spock learned the teachings of Surak, he no longer allowed himself to indulge in the child-like curiosity and wonder his mother nurtured.

But there were times, not unlike now, when Spock could not bury his curiosity beneath a mask of logic. He needed to figure out what caused his consciousness to dwell on James Tiberius Kirk when there were more pressing matters at hand. Like the looming tournament.

As he rose and stretched languidly, Spock's consciousness shifted from ruminating over the anomaly of James. T. Kirk, and to his strategy for the tournament. A strategy that, no doubt, Jim would blatantly ignore.

Spock pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Even now, with so much riding on his strategy and his leadership skills, Jim still managed to wedge his way into Spock's thoughts. Spock took a moment to center himself; gather his thoughts and attempt to banish Jim from his mind as he, again, started to strategize for the first round.

``

It was only the second day of his three day suspension and Jim was already out of things to do. He had read all the books he had packed, porn—surprisingly enough—had no appeal, and Jim felt himself getting jittery with excess energy. So, Jim picked up his PADD and flicked open the default search engine and checked to see if there was a public fitness facility in the area. Jim found one nearby that wouldn't cost him too many credits to use, so he changed into a lightweight white t-shirt and a pair of old basketball shorts, laced up his runners, grabbed his water bottle, and headed out the door.

Jim was a little giddy at the idea of working out, and he couldn't wait until he was at the gym completely lost in his work-out. As he neared his car, Jim couldn't help but smile faintly at the memory of the day prior, and Spock's difficultly in and out of the small vehicle.

Even though on the ice Spock drove Jim insane, in the few encounters they had had off the ice, Spock seemed like an okay guy; a little uptight, but okay. So, in trying to keep with his new found truce with Spock, Jim sauntered over to the other side of the hotel, intent on inviting Spock to join him for some training.

There was one problem; Jim didn't actually know which room Spock was staying in. So after ten minutes of knocking on doors unsuccessfully, Jim finally knocked on the right one, for Spock emerged. Jim smiled awkwardly.

"Hey, Spock. I'm heading over to a local gym for some training and I was wondering if you'd like to come along?" Spock looked behind him at the small stack of PADDs he was currently pouring over, attempting to build a solid strategy for the tournament.

"I would be amiable to your suggestion Jim. Just allow me to change into more appropriate attire before we depart. You may wait inside, if you wish." Spock stepped aside and motioned for Jim to enter.

"Alright," Jim said with a nod as he stepped inside.

As Spock closed the door behind him, Jim couldn't help but notice the stack of PADDs neatly organized on the small kitchen table in the corner. While Spock excused himself to the fresher to change, Jim quickly studied the various PADDs, completely baffled by the overly-technical language and break-down of the various hockey strategies Spock planned to implement as Captain. Jim felt the need to say something to Spock, but he quickly surmised that that would be a very bad idea, given that whenever Jim and Spock talked strategy on the ice it never ended well.

So, for once, Jim conceded and simply kept his mouth shut in order to protect the delicate truce he and Spock had, and by proxy, his place on the team. After Jim got bored of reading through the _very_ detailed strategy outlines Spock had, he discreetly looked around the rooms for some clue as to what kind of guy Spock was off the ice.

Needless to say, Jim didn't find many clues, as Spock was exceptionally neat—and aside from the stack of PADDs, the only thing lying about that Jim found was a rolled up yoga mat stuffed into the corner of the room, where Spock's duffel bag sat. Jim had a hard time trying to block out the mental images of Spock flexing and bending himself into positions that bordered on pornographic.

Jim could see it now, Spock nearly bent in half, stretching his shoulders and hamstrings while practicing the Dolphin Pose. Jim groaned and was instantly glad he was wearing baggy basketball shorts, as he felt his groin begin to stir. Being a rampantly hormonal teenager without any outlet for sexual frustrations was rapidly becoming very inconvenient for Jim.

"Is something the matter Jim?"

Jim jumped slightly and turned to Spock. Jim was instantly aware of several things. One, his hormones were firing on all cylinders. Jim tried his best to very discreetly give Spock a good once over.

"No, I'm fine, just eager to get training."

Jim had seen Spock every day for the last month and a half, so on some level he was aware of Spock's towering physique, but it was completely different seeing Spock without all of the bulky gear he wore on the ice. Spock was only wearing sleeveless under-armor and what looked suspiciously like yoga pants— so, for the first time, Jim was afforded a prime view of Spock's anatomy.

While Jim knew vaguely what to expect, as most hockey players had very similar builds, he was still surprised by Spock's muscle tone. His shoulders seemed impossibly broad, perfectly molded deltoids tapered into sinewy triceps and defined pectorals. Beneath the under-armor Jim could faintly see the outline of soft-toned abdominal muscles and the ropey muscles along Spock's flank, protecting his ribs.

Regrettably, Jim dragged his eyes back upward. Spock quirked an eyebrow at him as he turned to grab his gear bag. This, of course, gave Jim a great look at some of his favorite muscles groups, starting with toned trapezius muscles that rippled down Spock's broad back. Jim couldn't help but drool slightly as Spock's shirt rode up slightly, revealing two dimples on his lower back—Jim had the nearly uncontrollable urge to lightly dig his thumbs in. It was an odd fantasy, but Jim didn't have time to dwell on this, as Spock bent slightly at the hips in order to grab his bag, which brought attention to Jim's favorite part of the human body.

For a man, Jim couldn't help but think, Spock had a very voluptuous ass. Every other part of him was all harsh angles and straight lines, but his posterior was all dangerously enticing curves, expertly encased by tight-fitting yoga pants and perfectly mounted above lean legs that went on forever. Jim could have sworn he had died and gone to heaven as Spock's gluteal muscles flexed slightly as he stood and slung his bag over his shoulder. Jim quickly adverted his gaze as Spock turned to face him again, lest he be caught staring.

"I am ready to depart," Spock said to Jim, who nodded in return.

"Alright, the let's blow this Popsicle stand," Jim replied, grin tugging at his lips.

"Jim, I confess I am confused. I do not see a kiosk offering frozen juice treats anywhere in the vicinity of the hotel. Nor do I wish to 'blow' one if it were within range."

Jim couldn't help but burst into a fit of bright laughter. "You're a funny guy, Spock. It's a human idiom meaning 'Let's get out of here.' I was merely suggesting we leave." Spock quirked an eyebrow at Jim as Jim headed towards the door.

"Fascinating." Spock pulled the door shut behind him and his companion. "Do you use idioms often?" Jim shifted the strap of his duffel bag awkwardly.

"I guess, most humans do. Why, did your mother not use idioms when she spoke?" Jim opened the door and shoved his bag in the backseat and as he reached for Spock's, he couldn't help but noticed the slight straightening of Spock's posture.

"How do you know my mother is human?" Spock asked stiffly. Jim frowned slightly at Spock's tone.

"Spock, you are one of the best hockey players in the League—your stats and heritage is well known to anyone who knows how to use the Nets." Jim huffed slightly and hauled the duffel bag off of Spock's shoulder and into his car.

"Oh. I apologize for my discourteous behavior, Jim, but my heritage is often a source of ridicule." Jim clapped Spock on the shoulder.

"Don't worry about it, Spock. I know how it is." Jim rounded the car and slid effortlessly into the driver's seat. The same could not be said for Spock. Jim stifled a laugh as Spock folded himself into the passenger's seat. Jim couldn't help but smile at the weird turn of events. Even he had to admit that the prospect of being friends with Spock was much more enticing than the prospect of getting punched in the face by Spock.

~~

When they arrived at the small local gym, Jim handed over his credit chip and after a bit of a struggle, Jim paid for both himself and Spock.

As they started their warm ups, Jim's psyche decided that he deserved to be tortured, and he stupidly blurted out,

"So, when I was waiting for you to get changed I noticed you have a yoga mat. Do you do yoga?"

"Affirmative," Spock replied, stretching his rotator cuff lightly.

"It's been a while since I've been able to practice, what with the busy practice schedule and all. Do you wanna do some yoga?" Jim asked hopefully.

Spock arched his back as he raised his arms above his head, interlaced his fingers, and slowly brought his arms down, behind his back, stretching out his shoulders. Jim couldn't help but stare as Spock's shirt rode up, and his pants slid down his hips a little, revealing taut abdominal muscles and the thick, dark hair leading from his navel into the unknown recesses of his yoga pants. _Happy trail, indeed. _

"I would not be averse to practicing. I was unaware you practiced yoga, Jim."

"Yeah, Bones, my physician, recommended it to improve my flexibility. I hated it at first, but it really helped, so I kept going. I'm pretty advanced now."

With that, they fell into silence as they settled into the beginning poses and breathing exercises. Slowly, they made their way through the easy and simple poses, and graduated to the more difficult poses until they had moved up to the arm-lift poses like Mayurasana (or peacock pose) and Tittibhasana (or, the firefly pose). Jim could feel sweat dripping trails down his brow and down his back, and his arms ached heavily from the weight pressing down upon them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim looked over at Spock, whose suspended legs didn't even quiver. The only indication that this was any challenge for him was the slightly sweat dampened hair at the back of his neck, and the light green flushing his cheeks. Jim thought this unfair, as he was sweating like a pig, and his muscles quivered slightly as he struggled to keep his breathing calm and level.

After what felt like an eternity, but was in all reality a mere thirty seconds, Jim and Spock released their pose and slipped into Downward-Facing Dog. As they descended into the final relaxation poses, Jim couldn't help but feel invigorated. It had been so long since he had practiced he'd forgotten how serene he felt, despite the intense physical exertion yoga required. And it had been so long since Jim had practiced with another person with similar physical demands, that having Spock beside him—calm and motionless like a marble statue—really pushed Jim to embrace calmness as opposed to the high energy he usually associated with a work out. As they relaxed in Corpse Pose, Jim broke the silence.

"That was extremely enjoyable," he said as he exhaled deeply.

"I agree."

Jim had not expected Spock to reply, Corpse Pose was typically devoted to silent meditation, and knowing Vulcan's devotion to mediation, Jim hadn't expected Spock to break his meditative cycle in favor of conversation. However, Spock was exceptionally good at surprising Jim.

"I think it's time for some running or weight-lifting or something now that we're warmed-up." Jim eased himself up off the floor mats, and sighed happily as he felt his muscles ache slightly from the exertion. Spock also rose and turned to look at Jim, eyebrow cocked.

"You never cease to amaze me with your boundless energy, Jim. We have just spent two hours practicing yoga, at a master level which involves intense physical exertion, and yet you still have a remarkable amount of energy. It is truly fascinating."

Jim felt his smile stretch wider. "Gee, if I didn't know any better Mr. Spock, I could almost swear that you were complimenting my stamina."

"A compliment is a human device, a vehicle for pointless flattery. I am merely stating how intriguing it is that you seem impervious to exhaustion." Jim rolled his eyes as he and Spock walked over to the row of treadmills lined up along a row of windows. As they stepped on the treadmills, chose their pace and started their runs, they both looked out at the bleak landscape.

"Not much of a view, is it?" Jim asked, starting with a light jog. Just beyond the windows laid the parking lot, drab and grey. Beyond the parking lot lay the main road, and several shops—all unremarkable, old fashioned brick buildings— and other than the odd customer here and there, not much transpired beyond the windows.

"I agree, the view is not very satisfactory," Spock replied, his stride a little faster than Jim's.

While life beyond the windows was boring, Jim fell into an easy stride with Spock. Jim had never thought that anything would come easy with Spock, but the camaraderie between them seemed natural. Jim had always felt the need to fill the silences and to be seen but, with Spock, Jim finally felt comfortable with the silence.

He knew Spock saw him. It was as if Jim was a spark and Spock was gasoline, and when they had first come together it had been explosive; every ounce, burning aggression. But the flames quickly fizzled out, leaving nothing but slight scorch marks remaining to speak of the violence that had transpired. All that was left of the fire that had raged in Jim when he punched Spock, was a warm burn that settled in the pit of his stomach.

Jim wasn't sure if this was good, bad, healthy or unhealthy—but when he thought about punching Spock, and the look in his eye as Jim landed the first hit, Jim couldn't help but feel proud at the pure look of shock as Spock finally saw the real Jim Kirk for the first time. Spock had been forced to look past what he thought of James Tiberius Kirk, and been able to see the real Jim .

It has been said that nothing reveals a man's character better than violence. In their fist fight, both Jim and Spock had received the briefest glimpse of each other.

Jim couldn't say what he'd seen in Spock that day, and by the careful manner Spock tread around him, Jim figured that Spock felt the same. But as they fell into step beside each other, the rhythm of their strides so naturally in-tune, Jim inherently knew that whatever had been set in motion between them, wasn't stopping any time soon.

~~

Jim and Spock finally left the gym when their muscles, weary from hours of intense activity, ached and throbbed. Despite the pain radiating from Jim's overworked muscles, Jim felt upbeat. Upbeat and hungry, apparently, as his stomach let loose a loud roar. As they hauled their gear out to Jim's car, Jim dug out his cell phone.

"I'm starving. Do you like pizza, Spock?" Jim asked, entering in his co-ordinates into the GPS and waiting for it to find a pizza place nearby.

"I am familiar with the concept of pizza, although I have never ingested it," Spock replied, wearily stuffing their gear into Jim's small car. Jim paused and looked at Spock with an expression on his face caught between appalled and shocked.

"Wait. You mean to tell me, you have never eaten pizza."

"I believe that is what I said," Spock replied blankly. Jim caught him suppressing a wince as he wedged himself into the car.

"There is no way you've never eaten pizza. We must feed you some pizza. I do not understand how you have survived this long without eating pizza. Pizza is a gift from the heavens. It will blow your mind. We'll get like a meat-lovers with extra sausage and onions-"

"Jim-"

"And mushrooms and peppers-"

"_Jim_-"

"Oh god, and bacon, how did I forget bacon-"

"_**Jim**_." Jim immediately shuddered to a halt at the sound of Spock's raised voice. Even at the peak of their arguments, Spock had never raised his voice. Jim looked at Spock, who quietly said "I am a _vegetarian_."

"You're a vegetarian?"

Spock pinched the bridge of his nose and suppressed a sigh.

"That is what I said."

"So that's a no to extra sausage and bacon," Jim said flatly.

"No bacon, sausage or meat products of any kind, no."

"Well, that's a bummer. But I've gone veggie before, I suppose I can do it again." Finally Jim's phone had finished calculating the options and Jim selected the pizza place closest to the hotel. "Yeah, I'd like to place a delivery order-"

"Jim, if you wish to imbibe in meat products, you may do so, I do not wish to inconvenience you-"

Jim quickly put his hand over the receiver.

"Spock, don't worry about it. It's one meal, I won't die if I have one meal without meat." Jim returned to the call, relayed his order and the hotel's address. When the call ended, Jim stuck his phone in his cup holder and started the car. As Jim pulled out of the parking lot, Spock turned to him again.

"Jim, earlier you stated you had 'Gone Veggie Before', what exactly did you mean by that statement?"

Jim stifled a giggle at hearing Spock say the word 'veggie'.

"Uh, when I first found out I was invited to the preliminary training camp, I spent all summer training, so I could be good enough to make the team. In order to get rid of some small pockets of fat, I needed to augment my diet, and Bones suggested the best way to drop the fat fast was to get rid of meat. So, for the entire summer before the preliminaries, I was meatless."

"Jim you continue to astound me with your dedication."

At first, Jim thought Spock was trying to employ sarcasm, but when he turned to look at him briefly, Jim knew Spock was genuine. Jim squirmed a little under Spock's awed gaze, unused to the reverent attention from Spock.

"Thanks. I mean it's really no big deal." Jim shrugged, but Spock was still looking at him oddly and Jim couldn't help but shift awkwardly in his seat and reach for the radio.

~~

Of all the things Sulu could have guessed he would see upon entering the hotel room, Jim and Spock sitting cross-legged on Jim's bed, eating pizza, talking animatedly and not beating each other senseless was not one of the scenario's he'd imagined.

"I mean come _on_, Spock, it was a valid goal. Anyone with two eyes and a basic knowledge of hockey can tell you that-"

"I am sorry, Jim, but as the official ruling states, it was not a valid goal."

"You have got to be kidding me. It went in, they at least should have at least reviewed it. I mean, it had already passed the goal line when Khabibulin grabbed it. Valid goal!"

Sulu cleared his throat awkwardly, feeling slightly intrusive. Jim and Spock quickly turned to him.

"Oh hey, Sulu. 'Sup?"

"Hey, um. Not much? Hey Spock, how's it hanging?"

Spock looked confused for a minute and turned to Jim.

"It's an idiom. Sulu's asking how you're doing."

"I see. I am doing well. Thank you, Hikaru."

Sulu looked around looking for any temporal anomalies that would indicate he was, in fact, in the Twilight Zone. Jim grinned at the confused look on his roommate's face.

"Dude, no, you are not in the Twilight Zone right now. It's a long story. Wanna piece of pizza?" Sulu shrugged and took this as an explanation and joined Spock and Jim for pizza. "How was practice?"

"Good. The new guy, Scotty, is a freaking genius on ice. Like seriously, it's the freaking ice-capades out there, man."

"Hold on, we signed Montgomery Scott? I thought he was Canadian?"

"Nah, dude, he lived in the Yukon province in Canada, but he's not Canadian. I guess his parents immigrated to the U.S. or something. I don't really know—all I know is that he's one crazy dude. I'm sure you'll get along great."

"Are you calling me crazy? I am hurt Sulu—_wounded_ even," Jim replied, mock sadness in his voice as he placed a hand dramatically over his heart and Spock quirked an eyebrow comically at Jim's antics.

"Dude, you punched our Vulcan Captain in the face. I'm pretty sure you are the definition of crazy." Sulu replied, reaching for his second piece of pizza.

"Okay, so I'm maybe a little crazy. But only a little bit. Hey, Spock—any word on that Russian kid yet, what was his name? Cherov, Cherpov-"

"Pavel Andreovich Chekov. I believe Number One is attempting to integrate him into the team now that his U.S Citizenship has been finalized. The team physician has stated that Gary Mitchell will be unable to goal-tend for the rest of the season, at best,"

Sulu piped in quickly. "What I don't understand is—why are we pursuing another goalie? I mean, we have our back-up goalie. Gaila is solid. Plus, why isn't Chekov playing for Mother Russia? I mean, the kid's _Russian_."

"Regulations state we are required two goal-tenders and Pavel is one of the best this world has to offer. As for his Russian heritage, that hardly seems relevant to his spot on the team."

Sulu looked at Spock with disbelief.

"Come on, Spock, isn't it a conflict of interest? Aren't we slated to play Russia during the tournament?"

"We are, but if Pavel held some allegiance towards his home country, he would no doubt be goal-tending for the Russian team. Instead, he has chosen to play for our team. Is his alliance not obvious, Hikaru?"

Sulu was silent in response; Jim couldn't help but grin at the verbal pummeling his friend had received. It was nice not being on the receiving end of Spock's ruthless Vulcan logic for a change, and while Sulu had a valid point, Spock was right. If Chekov had some sort of allegiance to his home country, he would be playing for them. Jim had seen the kid's stats—every country was clambering for a kid as promising as the tiny Russian. The kid was only fifteen and he was out-playing some seasoned NHL goalies, stat-wise.

Jim was excited at the possibility of working with another young, talented player. It was really surreal for him when he really stopped to think about it.

Here he was, a small town farm boy who had worked his ass off, on the ice, for six years, and ended up representing his country in the IIHF World Juniors 2250, with the world's best players under 20. There were days when Jim woke up feeling like he was on some cheesy after school special, and he was having a hard time believing that this really was his life, now. But he tried not to dwell on it, and jumped back into the conversation Spock and Sulu were having about the recent additions to the team.

~~

Like yesterday, Jim spent the last day of his suspension with Spock, contorted and flexed at the gym, practicing yoga. When they returned to their hotel with a pleasant ache residing in their strained muscles, Jim couldn't feel anything other than contentment as he parted ways with Spock and headed to his room for a hot shower. However, he groaned slightly, when he was greeted by the form of Bones standing at his door, med-kit in hand.

"It's about damned time! I've been banging on your door for the last ten minutes. I thought you'd re-broken your nose in your sleep and choked on your own blood," Bones said gruffly, and Jim couldn't help but dead-pan at his friend's antics. "Well, are you going to let me in, or keep staring at me like a damned fool?" Jim rolled his eyes and pushed past Bones, unlocked the door and motioned for him to enter the hotel room. "Sit down and let me get a good look at your face."

Jim did as he was told as Bones dug out a small pen light, slid some medical gloves on and scanned Jim's face, prodding sporadically.

"Well, the swelling in your nose has gone down substantially. It's gonna take a couple weeks before it really starts healing. So be careful about taking any more hits to the face, for at least the next month. I'm taking the butterflies off, your split lip has scabbed over well and there's no signs of infection. How's your hand and wrist feeling?"

"It's alright, I don't think I cracked anything. I was able to do Mayurasana and Tittibhasana without any sharp or unusual pains." Bones looked at him blankly.

"You were doing yoga?"

"Yeah, I found a local gym and Spock practiced with me—"

"Wait, wait wait—" Bones replied sharply as he changed the bandages on Jim's left hand. "You were out practicing yoga with the guy who broke your nose not three days ago. That's crazy, even for you, Jim."

"Look," Jim sighed and ran his right hand through his sweaty hair. "I know it's weird, but Spock and I came to a truce, I guess. I figured that the best way to extend the olive branch was to train with the guy. Spock happens to do yoga, and you're always telling me to work on my flexibility—so we practiced."

Now that Jim finally heard it all explained out loud, it seemed really asinine to him. With the look Bones was fixing him with, apparently he thought so, too.

Jim felt himself get a little nervous. It was always unnerving to have Bones stare at him like that. It was like he knew that deep down Jim was bullshitting himself and that the real reason Jim asked Spock to do yoga with him had nothing to do with extending the proverbial olive branch. If Bones knew anything, he didn't say so. He merely finished bandaging Jim's hand and concluded the brief check-up.

"Alright, I'm clearing you for duty. As much as I would like to keep you off the ice for a little while longer, to give your nose more time to heal, I know that with the first round only a couple weeks away they need you on the ice. So, you're all clear," Bones said to Jim as he packed up his small medical kit. "Just remember, no more hits to the face, or you're gonna have to live life with a perpetually crooked nose."

"Don't worry, Bones, the face shield attached to my helmet should keep my nose safe."

Bones rolled his eyes. "It's what happens _after_ the helmet comes off I'm worried about. See ya later, Jim."

"Bye, Bones." Jim waved his friend off and closed the door behind him. With a deep sigh, Jim padded to the bathroom, looking forward to a long, hot shower.

~~

Startled awake, Jim rolled over and groped for his chronometer . Three A.M—what an ungodly time for someone to be pounding on his door.

In the next bed, Jim could hear Sulu's snoring stutter to a stop, and the cursing begin. Hauling himself up out of bed and to the door, the last person he expected to see standing there was Spock—who looked off kilter; a look Jim was sure had nothing to do with the early hour.

"Spock? What's going on—it's Three A.M."

"Jim, I must leave immediately, and I do not see my return in the imminent future," Spock said hastily. His duffel was slung over his shoulder.

"Wait, wait, what? Spock, the tournament starts in three weeks! You can't just leave—"

"Jim, I must leave. My…" Spock trailed off suddenly and Jim noticed Spock's jaw clench and his brows furrow. There was a tightness around Spock's eyes he'd never seen there before.

"Spock, what's going on?" Jim asked, stepping out of his room, and pulling his door closed slightly behind him. If Jim hadn't been laser-focused on Spock, he would have surely been embarrassed that he was standing in front of Spock in his Batman Boxers.

"My mother has taken ill. It is likely she…" Spock's voice caught as he spoke. "May not recover. I must return home immediately and help care for her."

Jim sucked in a harsh breath, running a hand through his hair.

"Shit. Um, okay Spock. You do what you need to do."

Jim stood awkwardly in front of Spock, not knowing how to proceed in this kind of situation. Jim felt compelled to hug Spock, but their new friendship was still precarious, so Jim hesitated. But looking up at Spock's lost expression, Jim threw caution to the wind and carefully wrapped his arms around Spock.

He felt Spock stiffen against him, but after a moment he sagged against Jim slightly. After what felt like a small eternity, Spock extricated himself from Jim, and straightened.

"I have already notified the General Manager and Number One, and I requested that in my absence you be named Team Captain."

Jim's eyes widened comically as Spock said this, and Jim got the sudden urge to haul Spock's face down to his and kiss him. Jim felt like dirt for judging Spock so harshly in the days previous. Spock's mother had taken ill, not likely to live and he had taken the time to tell the General Manager and Head Coach that Jim should take his place as Captain. Jim felt something in his chest tighten.

"Spock, I don't know what to say."

"You do not need to say anything, Jim. You will make a good Team Captain." Jim would have smiled if circumstances had been different

"I'm sorry about your mom, Spock."

Jim didn't know what else he could verbally say to Spock so, utilizing Vulcan touch-telepathy, he lightly pressed his fingers against the back of Spock's hand doing his best to convey what words failed to. Spock had once said to Jim that touching hands was an intimate gesture to Vulcans and Jim thought vaguely that a gesture like this was probably inappropriate, but Jim felt no other gesture would be appropriate.

"Thank you, Jim." Spock said, his quiet voice hoarse around the edges. With that, Spock pulled away and left—for how long, Jim wasn't sure. All he really knew was that in four days Spock had become an entirely new person to him, and Jim wasn't sure he knew how to deal with the person Spock was to him now.

~~

After Spock had departed, Jim had found himself unable to find a restful sleep, and this frustrated him to no end. He had practice bright and early in the morning and he needed to show the GM and Number One he was worthy of the title of Team Captain—but his concern for Spock was making him restless and anxious.

For so long, Jim had focused on no one but himself, that the intensity of his feelings towards Spock derailed him. It brought back painful memories of his brother leaving Jim behind, and of his Uncle awkwardly hugging his mother as she cried, and the tightness in his chest was overwhelming. He tossed and turned for another few hours before he succumbed to exhaustion, and slept.

~~

Convincing the General Manager had been easy. On the other hand, convincing Number One that he could be an exceptional Team Captain was the difficult part. However, in the end, the team flourished under Jim's guidance and they were playing better than ever before. This was enough to convince Number One.

Jim was ecstatic, and he finally felt like he had truly found his niche, but he still felt the weight of the empty space at his side where Spock had once been. He'd had little time to deal with Spock's absence before a replacement was brought in—surprisingly enough, from the women's junior team.

At the turn of the twenty second century, the regulations of the World Juniors had changed, allowing women to compete in the International Ice Hockey Federation tournament, which had opened the doors to a previously untapped market of great talent and dexterity on ice.

The firecracker named Uhura, who was temporarily replacing Spock as the first line right winger, was proof of that. She had an advantage that the men did not have; due to her smaller build, she was able to slide along the ice, easily evading and out-skating the bigger, bulkier players.

However, despite her small stature, Uhura was easily categorized as one of the big dogs. Completely unafraid, she would fearlessly take hits, body-check, trash-talk and throw the gauntlet down with players that lumbered over her. She quickly gained a reputation as the fire on the ice—and if Jim didn't want to live his life with a perpetually crooked nose, he would have no doubt tried to goad her into punching him. Which she no doubt would have.

With all of the last minute injuries and changes to the roster, the American team wasn't expected to make it past the first round against Switzerland. But they took everyone by surprise when they stormed the ice and conquered the dumbfounded Swiss team, their first game. The game which had taken place in Detroit, the home of the Red Wings, had gotten the apathetic crowd—already conceding defeat—to their feet screaming and cheering for their life, as Jim and the rest of the team effortlessly dominated the ice, scoring two goals in the first period and winning the game with a score of 4-0.

But it wasn't just the action in front of the net that was amazing, but the astounding saves made by the youngest team member, Pavel Andreovich Chekov. He caught, grabbed, deflected, and smothered every shot with tenacity and ease that rivaled the legendary Finnish goal-tender, Miikka Kiprusoff—which was truly remarkable for a boy of fifteen.

With their win came the tangible excitement and pride, the likes of which none of the young players had felt before; and it only served to motivate them to play even harder and come out from their underdog status as real contenders.

Game after game, the enterprising young team consistently defied the odds and won the first round against Switzerland, four games to one. When they had won their final game of the round, Jim couldn't help but wish Spock was with them, celebrating.

Jim and all the first line had gathered in his hotel room and were watching the highlights of the game, when the news break came on and Jim felt his stomach drop.

"Sadly, the wife of the Vulcan Ambassador passed away this morning. Amanda Grayson, the former head of Federation Public Relations passed away from leukemia in her Montreal home, early this morning. Her husband, Sarek of Vulcan, made a statement this morning, with his son Spock beside him. Now, you may recognize Spock as one of the star players representing the U.S Team in the IIHF World Juniors, three years in a row. It is unclear about whether or not Spock will return to the team for the next round, but it is highly unlikely…" The laughter and joviality in the room was suddenly gone as everyone watched as Spock stood stony and silent beside his father as his father made a statement to the press.

"Oh god, poor Spock," Uhura said quietly, a hand at her mouth and tears welling in her eyes. As Jim watched Spock, he was suddenly glad the next round was taking place in Montreal. He wanted to find Spock and do as much as he could for him. Jim had no idea what he could really do for Spock, but that wasn't going to stop him.

Jim looked around the hotel at his teammates and addressed them quietly.

"Okay guys, go get some sleep. We have a long day of traveling tomorrow. I'll see you guys in the parking lot at Seven A.M. "

Jim grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. His teammates quickly left—everyone except Sulu, who paused and looked over at Jim sitting on the bed with his head in his hands.

"Jim?"

Jim jumped, clearly startled.

"Yeah?"

"You okay, man?" Sulu asked, taking a small step towards Jim.

"Yeah, just tired. Long week," Jim replied, a weak smile pulling at his lips.

Sulu nodded and moved to leave but he paused again.

"Hey, Jim, it was Spock who showed up at Three A.M. a couple weeks ago, wasn't it?"

Jim nodded quietly.

"Yeah, it was him."

"What did he say to you?"

"He told me his mom was dying and he needed to leave," He said with a sigh, looking blankly at Sulu.

"Shit. Do you think we should go see him and pay respects or something?"

"No, I don't. He's getting swamped by the press right now. I think the team going over there is a bad idea. Plus, he's Vulcan and this is an emotional time. Everyone swarming him will only make it worse."

_Which is why I'm going over there by myself, Jim thought._

"Yeah, I guess you're right"

"Goodnight, Sulu."

"Night, Jim."

After Sulu had left, Jim flopped back down onto his bed. He grabbed his personal PADD and looked up Spock's address.

~~

When they arrived in Montreal, the whole team was relieved that they were able to spend a week sightseeing in one of the most beautiful cities in Canada. Jim was just glad he could finally see Spock.

After a brief rendezvous at the hotel, Jim returned to his hover car—which in all honesty, he was surprised had lasted the trip from Colorado to Detroit and now to Montreal—opened up the GPS on his PADD, and headed towards Spock's house. Had Jim been any less focused on finding Spock, he would have felt slightly intimidated by the increasingly large, sprawling estates. After meandering slowly around the neighborhood, the GPS signaled Jim to pull into the gated driveway just ahead of him.

As Jim pulled up to the intercom he panicked briefly; what was he going to say? _I'm a friend/teammates of Spock's and I'm worried about him—so, yeah, let me in?_

And for that matter, who was Jim? Was he Spock's friend? Just days before Spock's abrupt departure, Jim had punched him in the face. Then they'd come to a truce—found a rapport that Jim hadn't believed he could find with Spock. But that didn't change the fact that, during the majority of their time together, Jim and Spock had disliked each other and had been on the cusp of violence. Jim put his head on the steering wheel, trying to sort through all the confusion, to find the right answer. Suddenly, it occurred to Jim, most gated houses had security cameras fixed on the gates. Jim groaned and smacked his head against the steering wheel in frustration. There was no point in leaving now—someone had seen him. If he just left it would look suspicious, so Jim steeled all his courage, rolled down his window and leaned out to press the button.

A cold baritone voice crackled to life from the intercom "_If you are a member of the press, I ask you to leave the premises promptly and cease your intrusions_—"

"_What? No! I'm not with the press. I'm a teammate and…friend of Spock's, and I was coming to see how he is,_" Jim said lamely.

There was a brief pause,

"_My son is as he should be._"

Jim rolled his eyes at the cryptic response. "_I know this is a hard time, but would I be able to see him?_"

Another pause,

"_I do not believe that is wise_-"

"_Father, who is at the front gate?_" Jim jumped slightly at Spock's voice.

"_Spock!_"

"_Jim? What are you doing here?_" Spock asked.

"_The next round is being played in Montreal and I heard about your Mom, so I came to see you as soon as I got here._"

There was a long pause and Jim began to think Spock had fled, but just as Jim was about to pull away and leave Spock with his grief, the gates eased open. Jim sighed in relief and pulled up the driveway towards the expansive house.

Now that Jim was standing in front of the largest house he had ever seen, he quickly became self-conscious, standing there in his beat up jeans, white t-shirt, and scuffed converse runners. He had no time to dwell on himself though—as the door opened to reveal Spock standing there, looking weary; unlike Jim had ever seen him. A sad smile spread across Jim's face as he looked at Spock.

"Hey, Spock. I'm sorry about your mom."

"Thank you, Jim, your condolences are appreciated." They both stood there for a minute, unsure of how to proceed. "Would you like to come in?"

"Sure."

As Jim entered, he was astounded at the sheer vastness of the house. The ceilings were vaulted and riddled with beautiful skylights. Jim remembered Vulcan architecture from his studies and Spock's house clearly emulated it. As Spock led Jim through the house, presumably to his room, Jim couldn't help but notice bare spots on the wall where pictures had once been.

His heart squeezed painfully, reminding him of his own mother taking down the pictures of Sam and hiding the photo album filled with pictures of his dad.

He knew this side of grief well; it was the stage nobody told you about. I was a time when you hid from the good memories, when you hid from anything that brought you back to the reality that you had lost someone. A time when you hid yourself from every feeling you had felt before. It was safer and easier to hide from our life than it was to live it and confront your grief.

Jim knew that it would be especially hard for Spock to move past this, being part of a race that suppressed all emotion in favor of unwavering logic. Confronting his grief to overcome it would require Spock to face emotions that would be taboo for a Vulcan.

When they reached Spock's room, Jim noted a picture placed face-down on the nightstand. Again, Jim was struck with the urge to reach out and touch Spock's hand. Jim knew that if he were to turn that picture face up again that he would see a picture of Spock and his Mom. He knew, because he had done the same thing when Sam had died. When he had returned to his room after the endless hours of hospitals, police questions and psychoanalysis, he had slammed the picture of him and Sam down so hard the glass had cracked. Jim wondered if the glass in Spock's frame was cracked too.

It took a moment for Jim to realize they were just standing in Spock's room, silent; Spock staring at Jim and Jim staring at Spock's picture.

"Everyone on the team wanted me to tell you they're all thinking about you, and they're sorry about your mom," Jim said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck absently.

_Why am I here?_

"Tell them their thoughts and condolences are appreciated," Spock said evenly, looking as awkward as Jim felt.

"We ended up pulling this chick, Nyota Uhura, from the woman's team to fill the empty spot on the team, for now."

Spock's eyebrows flicked up briefly.

"What are you implying Jim?" Spock asked, his tone darkening.

"I'm not implying anything. I'm just saying that while you're gone she's filling in for you. But she knows it's only a temporary gig, when you decide to come back—"

"Jim, I am not returning to the team—or professional hockey, for that matter."

"Wait, what?" Jim felt hit by a ton of bricks. "What do you mean you won't be returning to hockey?"

"I meant what I said, Jim. I will not be returning to the team, or professional hockey. It is time to put childish things away and accept my responsibilities as a man. After my mother's funeral, I will be returning to Vulcan and re-submitting my application to the Vulcan Science Academy."

"Leave childhood things behind? What kind of after school special crap is that? Spock, I know you. You're _built_ for the ice, you are one of the best players I've ever seen—"

"While I admire your praise, Jim, it does not change the fact that it is time I left hockey and accept my responsibilities—"

"What responsibilities, Spock? Are you telling me that you're giving up something you love—to what? Go to the Vulcan Science Academy and be like all of the other Vulcans? Newsflash Spock, you aren't like the other Vulcans!"

"Jim. That is enough—"

"No, it _isn't_. Why are you doing this? When were you going to tell me this?"

"Jim, I do not owe you an explanation, and I would appreciate it if you showed yourself out."

"No." Jim took a step towards Spock, the air between them snapping taut, the tension suffocating as Jim stepped into Spock's personal space. "What is it Spock—why are you doing this? Now that your mom's gone, is everyone looking at you differently? All the eyes on you, expecting an emotional outburst, too much pressure—"

"Your presumption that these experiences somehow interfere with my abilities to play hockey—"

"Then what is it? With your mom gone, your last shred of humanity needs to be buried with her—"

Spock's voice trembled and turned volcanic "Step away from me—"

"No. If she knew you were throwing away your passion to be just another Vulcan scientist, _she would be rolling over in her grave_—"

Jim was cut off by a guttural roar from Spock, as Jim was shoved, sending him tumbling backwards, sprawling across Spock's bed. Jim swung his legs out and landed a heavy kick on Spock's hip, and Spock descended on him, pinning him beneath his weight. Jim flailed and struggled, grabbing Spock's wrists and yanking them away from his throat where they were scrabbling for purchase.

Quickly, Spock shuddered and went still, his chest heaving from exertion. Jim stilled slowly, loosening his grip on Spock's wrists, easing them upward and slowly intertwining their fingers. Spock's breath hitched again and he looked Jim in the eye. Jim looked back, seeing all the things in Spock's face he had once felt made him look like a lost puppy…a hulking, heaving, grief-stricken puppy.

In an unusually tender gesture, Jim extricated one of his hands from Spock's grip and placed it on his face. Spock jerked away from Jim's hand.

"Jim, I cannot…" After a moment, like snapping from a daze, Spock jerked away from Jim and up off the bed. They stared at each other, not knowing how to proceed. "I think…it would be best if you leave."

Jim nodded and sat up.

"Yeah. " He stood and straightened his clothes. Casting one more look at Spock who—for the first time since Jim met him—looked ruffled and disheveled, as he made to leave. He stopped in the doorway.

"Spock, you are not like other Vulcans. _Please_—" Jim tried to keep the edge of desperation out of his voice. "Don't try to be."

With that, Jim quickly strode out and down the hallway, past the places where pictures once hung, down the stairs and out of the house. Jim did his best to ignore his erratic heartbeat as he threw himself into his hover car. As he rolled the engine over and peeled out of the driveway, he nearly rammed into the gate as he struggled with his seatbelt. He reached out his car window and pressed the button requesting the gates to be opened. Once the gates opened, Jim stepped on the gas and thundered out of suburban Montreal.

He desperately fumbled with his radio, trying to find something so he wouldn't have to be alone with his thoughts. As he descended back into urban Montreal, Jim was thankful he had the next week free to bury the disastrous meeting under a mountain of training and sight-seeing.

~~

After three days, sight-seeing had lost its luster. After two more days, slipping in and out of yoga studios, rarely spending more than an hour in each, also grew old. No matter what style of yoga or what group of people Jim practiced with, nothing felt right. No matter how he contorted, Jim felt something missing.

There was no silent challenge, no one beside him that could marshal, without words, into the next pose, urging his muscles to shifting into place perfectly. After an hour of unfocused, unsatisfying practice, Jim left the studio and headed towards the nearest gym.

As Jim started the treadmill, he remembered looking out at the dismal Colorado landscape of parking lots and empty shops. He was quickly reminded that this time, Spock was not beside him, falling into step with him. Abruptly, he jumped off the treadmill. It seemed as if Spock was destined to plague Jim, haunt him like the ghost of the three days Jim had felt seen.

Jim shook himself out and sighed angrily, stalking off back towards his hotel. He was determined to cloister himself in his room and read until the day he could step foot on the ice and find home beneath his skates.

As he turned down the final corridor, Jim's heart stopped in his chest. The world tilted off its axis—and like Dorothy seeing color for the first time in Oz—there stood Spock, in front of his door with his gear bag at his feet. It was hard to resist the urge to run down the hallway to Spock, slamming into him and sending them both crashing to the floor in a graceless tangle of legs and arms, and all of the jumbled up things Jim felt. But in the end, Jim settled for briskly walking towards the tall Vulcan obstructing his doorway.

"Spock…" Jim was starting to become irritated with the way Spock always took the words out of his mouth at these important moments.

Spock turned and looked at Jim—and Jim saw that spark in Spock's eyes. The same spark he had had when he had broken Jim's nose. A chill skittered down Jim's spine at the notion of Spock making him see stars again, and Jim wondered if he should be preparing himself for a tactical assault.

"You are the most infuriating human I have ever met. And I have met many."

Jim instantly deflated and scrunched his face indignantly.

"You came all the way down here to tell me that? Spock, I already know that—"

"I am _not finished_, Jim. You are the most infuriating human I have ever met. You do not know the meaning of the word '_enough_' and you are a constant grating on my senses—"

"Why gee, Spock, I didn't know you felt that way—" Jim drawled sarcastically.

"_Silence_. You are constantly pushing me, pulling me and trying my patience… But these are not always unfortunate characteristics of yours, Jim." Jim blinked, a little stunned by the sudden fondness in Spock's voice. "It is these qualities that make you a truly great Captain, and it is these qualities I admire most about you. In the last few months, interacting with you has truly brought out the humanity in me…and this is not a bad thing. You are right, Jim. I am not like other Vulcans, and so I will not try to be. I am a child of two worlds, but neither Earth nor Vulcan is home. You are, Jim. You are home."

Jim released the breath he had been holding and let the smile unfurl across his face. As he looked up at Spock, Jim stopped fighting himself and crashed his lips to Spock's. It was clumsy; Spock had to bow himself slightly to make up for the four inch height difference, and sloppy due to Jim's frayed nerves—but it was the perfect rush to kick off what was about to unfold for them

~~

While Jim had longed to stay cloistered in his hotel room with Spock, eager to explore their brave new world, Spock's infallible logic was once again his downfall. They needed to find Number One and discuss if it was within regulations to bring Spock back onto the team in the middle of the tournament.

After an unscheduled detour around the hotel while Jim tried to 'find his bearings'—which Spock had come to know as a thinly veiled excuse Jim liked to use to assuage any doubts about the facts he was indeed lost—they finally ended up standing outside of Number One's room. Jim couldn't help but smile slightly as Number One looked at them through the open doorway with a mix of surprise and suspicion.

"Kirk, please tell me you haven't done anything reckless."

"Me, reckless? Never! Right Spock?" Jim elbowed Spock good-naturedly, and Spock merely quirked a brow at Jim. "I haven't done anything, I promise. There is just some logistical stuff I wanted to talk to you about."

"What kind of logistical stuff?"

"Like, whether or not it is within the rules for Spock to rejoin the team before the next round." Number One sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Come inside. Now." Jim and Spock entered, Jim looking like the cat who ate the canary. "A couple weeks ago you wanted nothing more than to beat each other to death on the ice. Now you would like me to find a way to circumvent the rule so we can have Spock placed back on the team _two days before the second round?_"

"Basically…yeah." Jim was honestly aware of how bizarre this all sounded. It felt even more surreal. Number One sighed and turned to Spock,

"Are you sure you want to come back to the team? Your mother passed a week ago."

"Yes. My mother was extremely vocal when it came to my decision to play hockey. It was what she wanted, and it is what I want."

"Alright." Number One walked to the oak desk by the window and grabbed the small paper-back manual sitting upon it. "This is the official rulebook. Not much has changed in the last couple centuries, aside from Gender and Xenobiological restrictions, so if there's some loophole we can extort to get Spock back on the team we will find it in here." After ten minutes of flipping, skimming and scanning they found all the ammunition they were going to need.

"So basically, because he was not formally discharged and did not have a set time limit on his absence, Spock can rejoin the team at any time?"

"That is what it says in the rulebook."

"But what about the number of players? Our roster is completely full now, with Uhura filling Spock's position."

"It appears Olsen has suffered a high-ankle sprain and will be out for the rest of the season, if not the whole year."

"Wow. How did he do that?"

"Stumbling around Old Montreal like a drunken fool. There was talk about ejecting him from the tournament, but now with the sprain it is unnecessary. I will speak to Nyota and see if she would be willing to fill his position as defenseman ."

"Has she ever played that position before?"

"She has. I would not be concerned, Kirk. Changing her position is the least of our worries with all of the other line changes."

"I suppose you're right. Does this also mean he assumes the title of Team Captain as well?"

"Normally yes, but it was Spock's request that you be named Team Captain, so I believe that the title should stay with you. Spock can petition for the role of Assistant Captain if he so chooses, as the slot is conveniently open."

"In that case, Spock, you wanna be my Co-Captain?"

"It would be my honor, Jim."

Number One looked over at Jim and Spock, who, not that long ago, had stood on the ice and battled each other until they drew blood, having to be pulled apart like unruly dogs. Now they stood close to each other, looking like impossibly old souls who had been reunited.

"I suppose it is settled, then. Welcome back to the team, Spock." Number One nodded, and gave Spock the Vulcan salute Jim had seen many times, but been unable to master.

Spock returned the greeting.

"Thank you, I am glad to be back."

"Good. Now, go practice at the rinks or something. Just don't come back to me with anymore game-changers—all right, Kirk?"

Jim grinned and nodded.

"You got it Coach, let's roll Spock!"

~~

It was early before the first game of the second round had started—too early for the rest of the team to be at the Arena. It was only Jim and Spock in the dressing room, sliding from their street clothes and into their under-armor, freely able to explore each other's bodies so openly.

As Spock bent to retrieve his practice jersey from the bench where it sat, Jim was finally able to sidle up behind Spock and slide his thumbs into the perfect dimples and either side of his spine. Spock had raised a questioning brow at Jim's maneuver, but Jim said nothing. He simply enjoyed the moment of standing there, enjoying his small personal victories.

Woefully, Jim slid his hands off Spock's lower back so he could retrieve his and Spock's skates. Sitting on the bench in the dressing room, lacing up their skates, a companionable silence fell over them, arms brushing ever so often as they began their routine of properly tightening their skates.

When their skates had finally been tightened and they stood to leave, Jim was again struck with Spock's height. With the extra three inches added to his height from his skates—Spock was a towering six foot seven—and Jim began to wonder why he ever thought punching Spock was a good idea.

Jim smiled and pulled Spock down to kiss the faint sliver of green where Jim had split his lip. The tips of Spock's ears tinged green and Jim cracked a grin leading Spock out of the dressing room towards the ice.

As Jim and Spock stood together that the precipice of the ice and looked out at the empty seats which would soon be filled with a roaring crowd, Jim indulged himself one last time. He touched his pointer and middle finger to Spock's, a Vulcan gesture Spock had taught him that symbolized a kiss. With the tingling thrill of their Vulcan kiss running through him, Jim stepped on the ice and turned to Spock.

"Welcome home, Spock."

~The End.~


End file.
